


Dancing to a Different Tune

by Llama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1605566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Llama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Peter don't have a relationship, but they do have a lot of beginnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing to a Different Tune

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azul_Bleu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azul_Bleu/gifts).



> I've tagged it as mildly dubious consent because Peter doesn't really ask for anything and sometimes does the exact opposite of what is suggested -- Stiles is not unwilling, however.

Stiles forgets sometimes what it was like in Beacon Hills when he was a teenager.

It took a long time to fade, that constant feeling of imminent danger, but four years of college, three travelling around Europe, and a couple settled only a few dozen miles away from where he grew up – just close enough to keep an eye on his father – and he's not only free of the hypervigilance that's plagued him for so long, but he hasn't had a panic attack in years either.

Dealing with the nemeton so it stopped attracting supernatural pilgrims might have played a part in that too, of course.

So Stiles can't be blamed for letting go once in a while. A couple more drinks than he'd normally have isn't a big deal. A night out where he doesn't bother to call for a ride home, but walks it at a leisurely pace, enjoying the cool night air. Or like tonight, a night when he gives in to the urge to lose himself in a crowd of sweaty bodies, letting his limbs go where they will. A night where nobody knows his name, nobody cares what he's doing, nobody's watching--

“Hello, Stiles,” purrs a voice in his ear. “Fancy meeting _you_ here.”

 

“You know, this kidnapping thing got old years ago,” Stiles says, when Peter marches him up to his – at least Stiles _hopes_ it's his – sleek black something-or-other in the parking lot down the street. Stiles doesn't know cars, okay? They get him from A to B and sometimes he thinks they're a pretty color, and maybe he still mourns his jeep, but he doesn't _know_ them. 

“Still playing that tune, are you?” Peter opens the door and shoves Stiles in none too gently. “I like the third verse best myself, can we skip to that part? Call me an egotistical asshole--”

“You're an egotistical asshole.”

“--but I love it when you moan my name.”

“Peter, this isn't happening.” But Stiles lifts his arms when Peter leans over to fasten him in, and the scent of him is so familiar, so strong even to Stiles's ordinary human senses that it makes him dizzy for a moment. “Just take me home.”

“Second verse,” Peter muses. “We are moving along fast this evening. I think I approve of this new enthusiasm.”

“I'm not--”

“And I was thinking of a motel, just out of nostalgia--”

“Peter.”

“--but if you're feeling hospitable, how can I refuse?” Peter smirks, and makes a sharp turn in the direction of Stiles's apartment. 

“I hate you so much,” Stiles sighs, because of course Peter knows where he lives, and Peter laughs even though – or perhaps because – he's telling the truth.

 

“Put the claws away,” Stiles groans, when Peter presses him up against the wall before the apartment door is even shut.

Peter scoffs, says, “You like the claws,” and scratches shallow lines all the way down Stiles's back, shredding his t-shirt, and Stiles is rutting helplessly against Peter's leg before it even falls to the floor.

“Here, do it here,” Stiles grits out, Peter's mouth hot and perfect around his cock, and he doesn't want to come like this, wants Peter in him, so close now he can remember the feel of it, the fullness, and it's not normally his preference but he forgets that when Peter has his hands on him, always has.

Peter won't, says “Bed,” releasing Stiles's cock and licking his lips, and he even knows where the bedroom is, the creeper, and Stiles will be having words with him about that later, but right now he just needs Peter with him, on him, in him.

“Fuck me,” he begs, landing flat on his back, watching Peter undress. “Get down here and fuck me, you--”

But the words run out when Peter straddles him, slicks him up, and rides him, smirking at Stiles's shocked expression, his babble of curses and “oh, fuck, _yeah_ ”s, at the way Stiles meets his challenge, matches his rhythm, at the way he comes screaming Peter's name louder than ever before.

 

“You've known where I was for ages, haven't you?” Stiles asks later, when he can make his voice work again. He doesn't wait for an answer. Peter's an accomplished stalker, he's probably been following Stiles around for weeks. “Why now?”

“The dancing.” Peter's lips curl up in a smile that isn't entirely predatory for a change, but it still has a hint of teeth about it. “What can I say, it turns me on to see you do something so badly.”

“I'm a great dancer!” Stiles has to defend himself, but Peter doesn't look convinced. “Scott says I am.”

Peter just snorts. “Scott's your best friend, you can't take his word for it.”

“But I can take yours?”

“I've never lied to you, Stiles,” Peter says, and if he was lying now he'd probably be pretending to be hurt, or gazing intently into Stiles's eyes movie-style, but instead he's sitting up and rummaging on the floor for his shirt. 

Stiles knows how this goes. He'll dress, kiss Stiles goodbye, and say 'See you around, Stiles,” same as he did last time. That was five years ago now; how long will it be until the next time?

“You know, I'm much worse at making breakfast than I am at dancing,” Stiles says on impulse.

Peter's back stiffens, and at first Stiles thinks he made a mistake. He should have left it as it was, just another of their brief encounters that probably shouldn't have happened. That might never happen again. It's like their relationship is full of beginnings, with no middle and, as far as Stiles can see, no end.

Then Peter drops his shirt.

“Sounds like that might be worth seeing,” Peter says. Stiles doesn't know exactly what the kiss says this time, but there's one thing he's sure of. 

It doesn't feel like a goodbye.


End file.
